


In Vino Veritas

by MorteLise



Category: RWBY
Genre: Awkwardness, Drunken Kissing, Glynda can fix anything, M/M, Memory Loss, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, if you expect them to be smart about any of this alas you are mistaken, they get frisky but hanky panky is not included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 09:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteLise/pseuds/MorteLise
Summary: Drinking isn't a vice Ozpin engages in very often. So naturally the one time he does has to have the worst outcome possible.Or at least that's what he has to assume when he was black-out drunk and Qrow won't talk to him about it after.





	In Vino Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> I thought a one shot based on a [Tumblr post](http://gorgeousgalatea.tumblr.com/post/169909176505/friendship-to-romance-tropes-i-cant-get-enough-of) would be short and sweet. I was wrong. But regardless I hope you enjoy~
> 
> (And if you'd like to say hi, I have a [Tumblr.](http://gorgeousgalatea.tumblr.com/))

Ozpin is beginning to suspect he might be drunk.

He certainly had no intention of getting through the last few hours sober, but he doesn’t think he had meant to actually become drunk.

No, he hadn’t.

But drunk he decidedly is, leaning his head against the cool glass of his bedroom window as the world tilts and time tilts with it.

What had he been doing to merit this again?

Ah. Yes. Attending a gala.

One he would much rather not have attended, but was duty-bound to make an appearance at due to his position as—shaman? Chancellor? King?

 _Headmaster_. Of Beacon Academy.

He has a school.

And so he had suffered through several hours attempting to make pleasantries with his fellow council members and Vale’s elite, plagued by the constant reminder that he really had hoped dissolving the monarchy would’ve gotten most of these families out of power by now.

Ten—fifty— _seventy_ years since the Great War and he still doesn’t understand how Salem or even simple survival of the fittest had allowed them to survive one of Remnant’s bloodiest conflicts to continue bleeding out Remnant in their own fashion.

But then perhaps Salem had deliberately ensured their survival. To make him miserable.

Not that everyone present and in power fell into that category—far from it, to his relief—but Vale’s old money still propagated the gala to the extent that Ozpin had found himself seeking solace in drink, which only reminded him that his attendance meant he’s likely to miss out on—other thing. Important. Vastly preferable. Rather not leave to his second in command, although she can handle it. And at this point, probably is.

Whatever it is. The specifics seem to be eluding him at the moment.

He takes another drink.

Oh, he’d promised himself he’d stop doing that, hadn’t he?

Oh well.

He had at least limited himself to drinking only enough to appear social and remain civil while at the party, and congratulated himself on that after the fact.

Of course, safely at home accompanied by no one to save face with, slightly unmoored by alcohol and left alone with the memories—of prattle about how the increased aggression of the White Fang proves they should bring back the Faunus ban, and why do Huntsman bother with out-of-kingdom missions when those people should know what they were signing up for, and how much better things had been when the monarchy was in place as though it hadn’t nearly contributed to world-wide disaster; faced with the annoying fact that had he still been king rather than tempering his own influence with what he had hoped would be a more objective council, most of those people would still have been in a position to put pressure on him to enact their views; and wondering if his every move was destined to somehow play right into Salem’s hands—he had been hit with the sudden epiphany that he was in fact nowhere near his limit and could happily continue drinking instead of thinking about any of those things.

In that respect, it had worked beautifully. Although he doesn’t think he should be feeling quite so drunk so soon.

He fears he may have gone from slightly unmoored to fully adrift.

But the good news is he no longer has to think about the party, or indeed place and century, which seem to be slipping away from his grasp at an alarming rate.

Which is why he avoids drinking.

Oh.

A bit late to remember that.

But he has his cane (currently retracted and stowed in his pocket, a quick search tells him), and a corporeal body, and is standing—leaning in a mostly upright position, that is—in an existing location, so he does presumably still exist.

Which means so does Salem. That might be cause for another drink.

He goes to rub an eye and finds himself impeded by glasses frames. He frowns, annoyed by the obstruction, and tosses them aside. The world goes out of focus.

Ah, right. He’s myopic this time around. He should probably find out where those went.

Something taps on the window by his ear and he startles.

Strangely, the culprit is a bird. The bird looks at him. He squints gamely at the bird.

The bird taps on the glass again.

Smart bird.

Messenger bird?

That sounds like the right track.

Keeping his grasp on time is terribly difficult right now, feeding into what he suspects is misguided paranoia—is it one of Mantle’s trained spy birds, hoping to procure enemy intelligence in the Great War? One of Salem’s miniaturized Nevermore scouts that had single-handedly spawned the superstition of crows as harbingers of misfortune? What if—

No. No, this is _his_ bird, he’s sure of it.

He opens the window, and the bird flies in.

It would probably help to have context for where and when he is before receiving whatever message the bird has arrived with, so he casts around for context in the room. Vale architecture, technologically advanced, informal and academically furnished living area—it would be so much easier to assess if he could see better—

Then the bird becomes a man and—oh, it’s Qrow.

Of course it’s Qrow.

Dozens or perhaps even hundreds of scattered thoughts coalesce back into stable certainty, even if his body is still horribly off balance. Because Qrow Branwen is synonymous with here and now; a constant anchor to the present by virtue of the man’s own inconsistency. Qrow is motion, is change, is an event unto himself so frequently mislabeled as bad luck. And yet still so reliable for one burdened with such an uncontrollable Semblance.

And ah, yes—that would be why Ozpin feels so very drunk; he’d been drinking for the man he’d been in his previous lifetime. His current alcohol tolerance is nowhere near that high.

Mystery solved. Thanks to Qrow.

“Hello, Qrow,” Ozpin says automatically, and wonders if Qrow is supposed to be there.

Qrow frequently turns up in places he’s not supposed to be, suddenly and without warning, and for all that it serves as a disruption, his presence is rarely unwelcome in the end. Currently, Qrow doesn’t look as though he’s supposed to be there, or even like he himself is entirely certain what brought him there to begin with.

But regardless Ozpin finds that he’s already glad that he is.

“Uh,” Qrow says, the dumbfounded confusion in his voice suggesting that Ozpin is somehow the outlier here in his own room, which is possible. He picks something up off the floor to hand to Ozpin. “Looks like you dropped your glasses.”

That really is a very excellent and helpful observation, Qrow is very smart and good at his job and enough of that Semblance nonsense because Ozpin is so very lucky to have him.

As a subordinate.

Yes.

“Thank you,” he says, after possibly too much time has elapsed, and slips his glasses back on. The world comes back into focus. Qrow, as it turns out, looks concerned.

“Some party, huh?” Qrow says.

Right. The party.

Ozpin goes to take another drink at the reminder and finds, to his surprise, that his glass is empty. When had that happened?

Qrow raises a skeptical eyebrow and plucks the glass from his hand to set it on the nearby dresser.

Their fingers brush. It’s not distracting.

“Think it’s about time someone cut you off there, Oz,” Qrow says, and while the advice is sound, Ozpin isn’t so drunk that the irony escapes him. He shoots Qrow an equally skeptical look and Qrow rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Guessing this means the council’s still got their collective heads shoved up their asses?”

It absolutely _does_ , and Ozpin bursts out laughing at the phrasing, dimly aware that he shouldn’t but too cushioned by alcoholic haze to care. With Qrow here, tethering him to the present, he regrets drinking much less. It’s much more pleasant now that he’s not getting swept away in the eddies of time, just numbed and pleased and uninhibited.

No wonder Qrow always—no. Not true, not the same reasoning, and dangerous and selfish to think—no.

No.

“It does,” Ozpin agrees aloud once his laughter has died down. He frowns, remembering the need for diplomacy, and adds, “But you’re not allowed to tell the council I said that.”

“Got it,” Qrow says, utterly deadpan, and there’s something especially pleasing about the low rasp of his voice as it drops to that deadpan, Ozpin could listen to it all day, honestly, but then Qrow huffs a soft laugh and no, actually that’s the most aurally pleasing thing Ozpin’s ever heard. “Gotta say, I didn’t come here expecting to be the sober one in the room.”

“You’re not,” Ozpin points out, because he hasn’t drank enough to miss the way Qrow smells like whiskey, or the slight, subtle sway to his movements.

Not that those things detract from his appeal. But maybe they should.

Qrow laughs again, and Ozpin congratulates himself on inciting an encore performance in so short a time.

“Comparatively,” Qrow says, and his mouth quirks up in a wry smirk that may or may not be intended as flirtatious, given that Qrow frequently and not necessarily consciously defaults to flirtatiousness, but also there’s a chance Ozpin may be somewhat biased in that department.

Ozpin leans a little more heavily against the wall, threading together a question he’s reasonably certain sounds safe and standard. “Why are you here, Qrow?” he asks carefully.

Qrow shrugs, taking out his flask on reflex before glancing between it and Ozpin and putting it away again without taking a drink. “Just wrapped up the debriefing with Glynda,” he says, and yes, right, the thing the gala had caused Ozpin to miss out on doing was Qrow.

No, not—doing Qrow, doing an activity with Qrow—an oral-dependent activity—that is—

He is his boss and they would have been having words. That Qrow instead had with Glynda.

And that’s fine.

“Thought maybe I should check in with you anyway,” Qrow continues, and tilts his head with a raised eyebrow and a slight, teasing smile that softens his eyes and is really a very good look on him. “Kinda glad I did.”

Ozpin sucks in a bracing breath and attempts to rally himself. The only thing truly out of the ordinary about this scenario is the amount of alcohol in his system. This is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Not the familiarity, not the small talk, not the proximity—

Although Qrow is awfully close, isn’t he, it’d be so easy to reach out and—

No.

“Was there something you felt I should be informed about right away?” he asks, still carefully. He doubts he’s doing a very good job at keeping face, but he feels obligated to put the effort in.

Hopefully it’s nothing too important; he’s not exactly a fount of information at the moment. But perhaps he could suss out an answer if he thinks it over long enough.

Qrow shrugs. “Nope, nothing too urgent,” he says, and that _smile_ slides back onto his face. “Doubt you could do much with the information right now, anyway.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ozpin responds with a smile of his own, and aims for amused but worries he’s inadvertently hit licentious. Mostly because his thoughts have. “What is there to check up on, then?”

Qrow’s eyes dart downward for a moment. “Just you, I guess,” he says. He grimaces self-consciously and gestures at Ozpin. “But, hey. That panned out better than expected.”

Qrow just wanted to see him.

Ozpin blinks as he processes this and feels his mind bisect into two separate reactions: the first is his default rationalization—Qrow is, somewhat conversely, a creature of habit, finding consistency where he can to combat his Semblance, and there are few things as consistent by nature as Ozpin. Qrow must be adhering to as close to a routine as their chaotic lives allow for.

The second is nothing but thrilled. Distressingly, this one seems to be winning.

He moves—to shake off his mind-clouding euphoria, to act on it in ways he will surely later regret—and clips the glass Qrow had set on the dresser for him. It wobbles off the dresser and smashes unceremoniously on the floor.

They both stare at it. Qrow sighs. “Or maybe it panned out same as usual.”

It takes Ozpin a moment to register that Qrow has gently taken him by the arm to lead him away from the broken glass. “It might be wiser to leave cleanup till the morning,” Ozpin says, trying to focus on the glass rather than the contact.

“Sorry about that.”

Sometimes Ozpin wonders if Qrow realizes inconveniences still happen to people when he’s not around to cause them.

“I don’t mind,” he says, and Qrow rolls his eyes.

“Of course not,” Qrow says with wearied sarcasm, and perhaps Ozpin should’ve been a bit clearer about that.

“I won’t say it’s an enjoyable experience, but there’s nothing more dangerous for me than stagnation. Some time for introspection can be nice, yes, but the longer I spend at it, the more the centuries pile up.” He offers Qrow a small smile. “I would take your misfortune over endless rumination about my failures any day.”

There’s an endearingly instinctive flicker of annoyance in Qrow’s eyes at that. “Yeah but—” Qrow begins, then pauses, more practiced in defending the mention of Ozpin’s failures to people who aren’t Ozpin himself. “You’re still here, though,” he says finally, sounding dissatisfied with his own response.

Ozpin gives an undignified snort of laughter. “Given the nature of my curse, where else could I be?” he says, unable to keep the bitter edge out of his voice, and Qrow winces.

“No, I mean you’re still here,” Qrow gestures vaguely around the room with one hand, “in the middle of it. You could’ve given up, or taken a break—God knows you need one—but instead you’re still fighting.”

It occurs to Ozpin that they’re still moving—Qrow still has him by the arm and is subtly inching them towards Ozpin’s bed.

Not subtly enough; he’d noticed, after all. But he’s too invested in the conversation to say anything about it just yet.

“You say that as though I’ve never had my moments of weakness,” he says, edging closer to snide than he would dare while sober. “There’s an entire legend built around one prime example, if you’ll recall, one rather important to our organization—”

“Yeah,” Qrow replies, talking over him impatiently before he can get any deeper into his self-deprecation, “but I’m not talking about who you were, I’m talking about who you are. Here, and now. Since I’ve known you.”

That’s...not the argument he was expecting.

There is a distinction there, between ‘was’ and ‘is’, but it’s not one most think to make. The individual lives don’t matter. Only the accumulation.

And yet Qrow—

Ozpin stares at him, mind struggling to think up a response as he tries to make his disobedient eyes actually focus long enough to stare properly.

“It’s not wise to dismiss a person’s past,” he says finally.

Particularly not a past as expansive and damning as his.

“Heh, why not?” Qrow asks, warm and fond in a way that is frankly contagious. “Back in the tribe half the recruits came from towns we’d raided, not much room for holding grudges there.” He nudges him in the side. “And look at everything you’ve done for me.”

As though Qrow hasn’t earned it—hasn’t striven and struggled to be worthy of his teammates’ and Ozpin’s trust; hasn’t cast aside his own past and stayed unwavering despite his own sister’s many attempts to bring him back with her. Qrow has done nothing but move on; Ozpin has done nothing but try to undo his many mistakes.

Qrow sees his doubt—utilizing the perception that makes him so very talented at his job—and elaborates on his point. “It’s not about where you came from, it’s about what you’re doing.” He squeezes Ozpin’s arm and smiles. “Thought that was half the point of your creepy reincarnation shit; this is literally a whole new life for you. And I happen to think you’re doing alright with it.”

Qrow’s smile is open but his eyes are analytical—gauging whether his words have had the intended effect as Ozpin is busy bracing himself against an unexpected swell of mixed emotions. He swallows the lump in his throat and blinks back what he suspects may be tears.

He’d like to think he would not be so very emotional if not for the alcohol coursing through his veins, but frankly he’s in no fit state to judge. Ozpin is frequently of two minds—the eternal, exhausted and stalwart and regretful; and the current, bright and striving and never fully rid of resentment over a life stolen—but in hearing this they seem to be united in relief.

Here and now, he’s doing alright.

That’s—more than he could have hoped for, really.

Qrow’s still looking at him, questioning and intimate, and although they’ve stopped moving Qrow still has him by the arm, and Ozpin suddenly realizes that he’s practically leaning against Qrow as support at this point.

It’d be so easy to—

So he does.

He curls a hand into the lapel of Qrow’s shirt and sways in to kiss him on the mouth.

...Oh. That really is so easy. Why hasn’t he done this sooner?

There’s an answer in there somewhere—in Qrow’s soft gasp of surprise, in the sudden tension in his spine, in the way the hand on Ozpin’s arm tightens and then lets go to hover just shy of contact—but there now exists a moment in time where Ozpin has kissed Qrow Branwen, and he can’t see any way he might regret that.

Qrow looks hilariously taken aback when Ozpin pulls away, and at the very least Ozpin has the presence of mind not to laugh aloud at that.

“Oz,” Qrow says hoarsely, looking genuinely perturbed now as those red eyes dart over Ozpin’s face, searching for—something.

Ozpin licks the taste of whiskey off his lips and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and takes Qrow’s hands, guiding one to his waist and pressing the other to his cheek.

A dozen different emotions flicker over Qrow’s face. His lips part as though he intends to say something, but then he frowns, worryingly deeply, and says nothing.

He doesn’t move his hands.

They’re suspended on the edge of something, something Ozpin thinks he may have wondered about or perhaps imagined in the past, but here and now it finally feels like something he could have. He answers Qrow’s frown with a wider, more coaxing smile, and raises an expectant eyebrow. There’s a breath of hesitation where he remembers with rising dismay that there is in fact the possibility his interest is unrequited, and then, rewardingly, Qrow’s eyes dart to Ozpin’s mouth and his expression settles into that crass resolve Ozpin is so used to seeing right before Qrow does something reckless.

Qrow kisses him back.

And that is, in every respect, so much better.

Reciprocation alone is a vast improvement, and also Qrow is very good at this, good with—with his hands and his mouth and particularly with a very skilled tongue, and in this moment Ozpin’s previous issues with proximity are a mystery, proximity means he can explore all that lean, corded muscle and tug at feather-soft hair, and as he does Qrow makes this _sound_ and kisses him harder and there are calloused hands sliding beneath his shirt and suddenly he needs so very many things; needs more skin on skin, needs friction, needs to suck bruises onto Qrow’s neck, needs those dexterous fingers working on more than just buttons, needs to get them to the bed—

And then very suddenly he is flat on his back on the aforementioned bed.

He blinks, momentarily winded by the fall and by what had preceded it, and wonders when he had gotten close enough to the bed in order to make that particular misstep. The whole thing is so absurd he can’t help laughing.

But Qrow isn’t on the bed with him, and that needs correcting.

“Come back, I’m not finished with you,” Ozpin says, still snickering, and beckons with a raised hand.

“Come get me,” Qrow says, his tone a strange mixture of amused and wistful that Ozpin would probably be better at assessing if he could see Qrow’s face at all from his current angle.

“I will,” Ozpin says, but seems to be having difficulty actually rousing himself off the bed now that he’s lying on it.

The ceiling is spinning. That doesn’t help.

“On second thought,” he amends, dropping his arm to pat the bed, “it’s much more comfortable here.”

“I’ll bet it is,” says Qrow, but he does not in fact seem to be joining him, and his obstinance seems simultaneously very like Qrow and very unlike Qrow regarding Ozpin.

“You should be here with me,” Ozpin tries instead, hoping the phrasing is less ambiguous but not wanting to give him an actual order.

Sadly, this doesn’t seem to work either.

“You might not want me there in the morning,” Qrow says wryly, still out of view.

Ozpin really should repaint his ceiling. Find a quieter shade of green. One that makes him less ill as it spins.

Also Qrow’s statement is absolutely ridiculous.

“I always want you,” he says matter-of-factually, because honestly, if that isn’t information Qrow’s already deduced, it’s definitely something he should know so he can avoid making such silly arguments in the future.

Qrow makes a soft noise at that, but says nothing.

The silence lasts long enough that Ozpin becomes aware that he is taking longer and longer to open his eyes as he blinks, darkness edging into his vision and his thoughts as his body demands sleep. “Please,” he manages to slur out, patting the bed again.

“You’re drunk, Oz,” Qrow says quietly.

Well, _yes,_ that’s an undeniable fact at this point. Where has Qrow been?

So very far away. Standing. Still very inconveniently so.

“And?” he prompts, grasping desperately at consciousness.

“And we’ll see what you have to say when you’re sober.”

Oh. Well, that is also inconvenient but understandable.

“Very well, we’ll talk in the morning,” Ozpin says magnanimously. Then Qrow will see. “After you stay the night,” he adds on impulse, because why not add to his good fortune.

They’ve already made such magnificent progress, this really has been a wonderful evening.

“That an order?” Qrow’s voice isn’t quite playful.

If it’s a trick question, then Ozpin has likely ambled his way right into falling for it. Ha, falling. “Will that get you to stay?”

Qrow sighs. “Yeah.”

Alright, whatever works.

“Then yes, it is.” Ozpin thinks that could use some elaboration and adds, “I like when you’re here. Because if you’re here, then I’m also here, and I like being here and now and with you.”

That...may have made more sense in his head.

He distantly registers Qrow tugging off his shoes and tucking him in. “Let’s start with you sleeping this off,” Qrow says, and this at least sounds fond.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” Ozpin asks hopefully, and wonders how long his eyes have been closed.

“Yeah,” Qrow says, warmer than before. A hand settles in his hair, just for a moment.

Good.

He’s not sure he said that aloud.

But nevertheless he drifts off with a sound sense of accomplishment.

-

Mistakes have been made.

They’re spelled out in bold, brazen letters right in front of him, and yet Ozpin is in too much pain to read them out properly.

Mostly he regrets having a body right now.

He spends a moment curling up tighter beneath the sheets and trying to will himself back into unconsciousness. When that fails, he emerges reluctantly to start the day.

He’s been through worse. Not any time recently in this particular department, but he has.

There’s a glass of water on his nightstand, and he frowns at it. It would be nice to think he’d had the foresight to put it there the night before, but that seems unlikely given his current condition. He sips it gratefully, uncaring of its mysterious origins, and discovers that his stomach is not in any fit state to have anything introduced to it at the moment.

The gala couldn’t have been bad enough to warrant this.

Well, he concedes as he goes over what he can recall of the previous evening while sitting on his bathroom floor in grim anticipation of his next wave of nausea, he can see why it might have been. And at least he hadn’t really gotten into it until he was safely alone.

Still. Probably not worth it.

It takes longer than he would care to admit until he feels well enough to leave the bathroom, dragging himself to the kitchen with the intention of finding something to eat before the nausea returns. The kitchen is much too bright, but regrettably there’s no way for him to turn down the sun.

“Eggs and toast okay?”

Ozpin stares.

Hopes desperately that he’s imagining things.

But no, Qrow is definitely standing here in his kitchen, a witness to his hangover.

Oh, no.

He has no idea how to process this so he doesn’t, making a beeline to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee (which, unless his apartment is now inhabited by gremlins, Qrow must’ve brewed for him. Wonderful.) while he tries to remember how to put together sentences. His cream and sugar materialize next to him on the counter as he stares into his mug, wondering if his brain is leaking out of his ears.

“Thank you,” he manages, just barely.

He still doesn’t seem to be functioning. Painkillers would be nice.

Hands that are not his own deposit an uncannily accurate ratio of cream and sugar into his mug before placing the mug into his actual hands.  He takes an automatic sip.

It doesn’t actively help, but it doesn’t upset his stomach anymore, either.

So at least that’s something.

“You should get back to bed, Oz,” Qrow says, low and gently teasing.

That might be a wise decision.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and shuffles back to the bedroom, vaguely relieved that the pain prevents him from feeling adequately mortified by the turn of events. He perches on the edge of his bed nursing his coffee and futilely attempting to will his overwhelming headache away before Qrow trails in a few minutes later, carrying a tray with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

Ozpin stares at it, evidently with more intent than he’s blankly stared at everything else, because Qrow laughs sheepishly.

“It’s edible,” he says, setting it down with a wry smile. “Tai said we had to at least learn how to make breakfast or he’d poison the next one we woke him up to cook.”

The meal is indeed edible. Ozpin should probably comment on that. Or anything, for that matter.

After a moment of deliberation as he finishes eating, he starts with the most important thing he feels he should communicate.

“I,” he begins, then clears his still-raw throat before trying again, “I apologize for all of,” to his dismay he runs out of words and instead settles for gesturing at his general person, “...this.”

Qrow smirks. “Right, ‘cause I’ve never seen a hangover before,” he says.

True. That implies a lack of judgment Ozpin doubts he would’ve gotten from anyone else he might’ve woken up to find in his apartment that morning.

Which...still doesn’t make sense.

Ozpin dimly registers the dip of his bed before a hand settles on his back, and he startles badly enough that some of the coffee slops onto the serving tray. He turns to Qrow in askance and his breath catches at their proximity.

Qrow looks like a deer in headlights for a moment, as though he’s only just realized who it is he’s getting familiar with, but it smoothes out into the same patient concern he’s been utilizing for the duration of...whatever this is. “It helps, sometimes,” he says, rubbing his back in small, soothing circles. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll stop.”

It does help, and Ozpin lets himself relax into it, retrieving what’s left of his coffee and washing down pills he already knows won’t dull the pain as much as he’d like them to.

Then Qrow adds a hint of nails to the equation and Ozpin just about melts, making a pathetic whimper he very much hopes Qrow will not relate to others.

Part of him is beginning to wonder if he is in fact still asleep, although the pain would be a bit unfair if that’s so. It would explain just about everything else, though.

Qrow must think him selfish, taking all he’s generously provided without even managing a conversation in return.

“Why are you here, Qrow?” he asks finally, which sounds appallingly ungrateful but should at least get him an explanation, and there’s a distressing puff of warm air by his ear as Qrow laughs again.

“Yeah, figured you’d ask that,” Qrow says, mostly amused but slightly—something else. Something Ozpin thinks he would’ve been able to discern if he were more alive. “You said last night that we should talk in the morning.” The circles are briefly interrupted by a reassuring pat. “Doesn’t have to be this morning.”

Ozpin’s stomach sinks and his face grows cold. He puts his head in his hands.

Qrow walking in his hangover would be bad enough. But last night, while he was—

The last thing he remembers is dissociating enough to forget his own tolerance level. Things couldn’t have improved from there. What had he—

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, not daring to think about what might have transpired. “For anything I might have said or done that was out of line, I never wanted you to see me like that—”

Qrow nudges him gently in the side. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, Oz. Like I said, this conversation can wait—”

“I may not have been myself,” Ozpin says, and the hand on his back goes still. “The fault is mine regardless, but one of the many reasons I avoid drinking is because of how terribly easy it is for me to lose track of time and my place in it.” There’s a staggeringly high number of versions of himself he hopes Qrow hadn’t met. If he’d insulted him or mistrusted him or gods forbid, actually attacked him—Qrow had stuck around for an explanation, so it must’ve been something significant. “I might’ve imagined myself to be the man I was fifty years ago, or a hundred—and I’m afraid my behavior might’ve reflected that. So whatever explanation I owe you—”

Qrow gives him another quick pat on the back and then puts his hands in his lap as Ozpin glances back at him. “Pretty sure you just gave it,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. That makes sense.” He stands and takes the tray. “Anything else I can do? Or should I leave you alone so you can get some shut eye?”

 _Stay_ , Ozpin wants to say, but he’s already wasted enough of Qrow’s time and energy—not to mention thoroughly destroyed any respect Qrow might’ve had for him between this morning and the previous night. “You’ve done quite enough, thank you.”

“Right.”

Qrow leaves with the tray, which gives Ozpin the time he needs to at least change into something more sleep-worthy than the suit he’d passed out in. It occurs to him as he does that Qrow gave no indication on whether he’d be coming back, but just as he finishes up Qrow returns with a new mug, this one filled with hot chocolate.

There’s a part of Ozpin that enjoys the doting, but he’s mostly mortified and in pain. “Qrow, you didn’t have to—”

“Did a lot of things I didn’t have to,” Qrow says, setting down the mug with a troubled frown. He quickly replaces it with a smile, but the smile is weak. “I’ll see you at the next mission briefing. Feel better, Oz.”

“Thank you,” Ozpin says again, because he seems to be exclusively limited to gratitude and useless apologies at the moment. He manages a smile, but it isn’t much more convincing than Qrow’s.

Qrow leaves, and after another hour’s rest and the painkillers finally kicking in Ozpin isn’t anywhere near his best, but is at least lucid enough to review what he can recall of the past few hours and wonder, not for the first time, how over several millennia mostly consisting of regret he still hasn’t managed to invent time travel.

No answer is forthcoming.

Without that decisive solution on hand, he adds the incident to the expansive list of mistakes he has to undo.

He doubts he has much more hope of solving this one than he has with any of the others.

-

Absence is an insidious thing.

Ozpin never thought he took the easy sense of camaraderie he and Qrow have developed over the years for granted, but he does find himself disproportionately devastated by its loss.

Qrow remains—while far from a model employee—perfectly adept at his job and adequately respectful, but after the incident he limits their relationship to just that. And consciously so; whenever a simple debriefing threatens to slip into banter or casual conversation, it takes only a few moments before Qrow’s eyes shutter and he steers the subject back to business. Ozpin’s always taken a certain measure of pride at being the exception to Qrow’s distaste towards authority figures, but it’s galling to have Qrow treat him exclusively as such.

But for all that it pains him, he doesn’t find it especially surprising.

The Branwens originally came to Beacon looking to uncover Huntsmen’s weaknesses, after all—also to hone their own skills, yes, but life outside the kingdoms had left them well enough off in the combat department that Ozpin always suspected they were less concerned with matching strength than pinpointing vulnerabilities.

Their induction into the inner circle had helped him convince the twins to utilize their technique on Salem’s followers instead, at the (at the time) acceptable price that they also began using it on him upon becoming aware of what he was. He couldn’t fault their reasoning; if they were going to be looking into Salem’s machinations, then they had the right to know whether he could feasibly counter her.

Raven had come to the conclusion that he could not.

Part of him has always felt that Qrow would eventually do the same, involved as he was in his sister’s investigation. In fact, he’s more surprised it’s taken this long for Qrow to do so. But of course making such an ungodly fool of himself would finally push him over the line.

Ozpin would like to believe it would’ve hurt less if it had happened sooner.

(He’d like to believe, too, that he never would have fallen for Qrow if he and Raven had gone off together.)

He wonders at first why Qrow would settle for emotional distance rather than simply cut ties as Raven had, and then berates himself for his self-absorbed assessment. Qrow is a far cry from his sister; he has a life here, and a family, and no desire to throw them away. And leaving the inner circle isn’t so simple for someone who doesn’t plan on going far; he’s likely aiming to broker a deal similar to the one Taiyang struck after he found himself raising his infant daughter without her mother. And it would be well within reason for Ozpin to allow it—between Qrow’s employment at Signal and close relationship with his fast-growing nieces, his circumstances are very similar to Taiyang’s indeed.

Save for the part where Ozpin has yet to find a replacement.

And he’d personally prefer it if Qrow didn’t leave. But if Qrow were to ask, he knows he would allow it, regardless of what common sense demands. And he does expect Qrow will ask eventually.

(Qrow certainly hasn’t asked for an explanation about that night again.)

In the meantime, Ozpin carries on with his semblance of normality as best as he’s able, futilely hoping that pretending hard enough that nothing’s changed will undo whatever has been done, but instead the distance grows.

Although that could be because his act isn’t as convincing as he’d intended it to be; something Glynda finally informs him of one otherwise unremarkable evening.

“Moping doesn’t become you, sir,” she says as she steps into his office, and Ozpin’s heart sinks as he looks up from his paperwork, schooling his expression into polite confusion.

Glynda actually rolls her eyes. “Don’t,” she says, and sets a bottle of whiskey on his desk.

He raises an eyebrow at it, unsure whether it’s meant to be a gift, a reminder of the misstep that set this all off, or an indication of what he’s driven her to. He could ask, of course, but the implication here seems to be that he should already know.

“Hello to you too, Glynda,” he says instead, putting his pen aside and giving her his full attention. “How are you doing this fine evening?”

The look in her eyes tells him their dynamic has shifted; she doesn’t look at him with the respectful acceptance she faithfully maintains for Beacon’s headmaster, but instead with the exasperated impatience she usually reserves for her most difficult students.

“I’ve been better,” she says tartly, then sighs. “If you’re wondering if it’s obvious, it’s not. I expect it will be if this goes on long enough, though, so whatever’s going on with Qrow you might as well get it over with instead of dragging it out like this.”

The advice is sound. But the thought of executing it is cringe-inducing.

Ozpin considers for a moment continuing to feign ignorance to avoid the conversation before discarding the idea as both futile and possibly suicidal.

“I didn’t intend for it to go on this long,” he admits. “Although I suppose I put the onus on Qrow to bring it up first.”

Qrow’s never been afraid to tackle awkward situations head on. And he is the one with context, after all.

Although given that Qrow hasn’t, in fact, tackled it yet, that does raise the question…

“How did you know it had to do with Qrow?” he asks.

As an admirably disciplined educator for a prestigious academy, Glynda does her best to avoid profanity save for when she’s at her most enraged, but now she shoots him an expression that states, very clearly, ‘are you fucking kidding me.’

“Aside from the obvious timeline? He’s not subtle,” she says, admirably deadpan despite her incredulity. “Qrow has never been subtle.” Her eyes narrow. “And it’s looking contagious.”

“I’ll handle it,” Ozpin says, but isn’t quite sure what he means by that. “I hadn’t realized it’d become such a problem.”

Glynda cocks her head to the side, frowning. “Problem isn’t what I’d call it,” she says. “But it definitely needs solving.” Her eyes soften. “Don’t you think you’ve let this go on long enough?”

Ozpin stares at her blankly for a brief, mercifully uncomprehending breath, and then gets back to his time travel invention plan as the realization hits.

Maybe lack of subtlety is contagious after all.

Or he’s really become that hopeless a case.

“I am in a position that requires me to maintain objectivity,” he begins, but Glynda overrides him, her frown taking a turn from pitying back into annoyed.

“And you do a wonderful job at it, but I think we’re past that where one specific person is concerned,” she says. Ozpin isn’t sure whether he’s more dismayed that she’s intuited his feelings so easily or that he can’t for the life of him figure out when or how she managed to do so. “I mean, you’ve always had faith in the rest of us to pull off balancing our personal relationships with the job, so while I can’t speak for everyone, I think it’s reasonable to expect you to be able to do the same.”

She means well, but a sick, poisonous nausea not unlike what he had suffered during his hangover bubbles up in his stomach.

There’s a reason he’s never included himself in that edict; he’s not suited for a relationship. There’s either too much or too little of him for others to become emotionally invested in in that respect.

(And, he’d thought, for him to become romantically interested in anyone else. But he’d been soundly proven wrong on that front, hadn’t he?)

The wizard—cursed, eternal soul that he is—dates so far back into Remnant’s history that the land had yet to be called Remnant. He’s been chosen time and again to lead by virtue of his innate consistency: whatever empires may rise and fall, as long as Salem remains, so will he. A figure to be relied upon by dint of his millennia of experience, maybe, but as a person his existence stretches into temporal abstraction in a way that defies relatability.

(Or humanity, to some. Raven, for example, had been emphatic about that interpretation before she left.)

And Ozpin himself—well. There’s a reason he’s considered synonymous with his role; there isn’t much to say otherwise. An aimless, patently normal life derailed and overwritten at fourteen in favor of a grand destiny he hadn't been ready for. That no version of himself has ever been ready for—and suddenly there’d been versions and history and duty and Salem, and with all of that to absorb, it left so little room for what had preceded it in his own meager life. Which is no longer strictly his own life, but that person is still in there somewhere, maybe. It is his name on the paperwork these days.

(He likes hot chocolate and hates brussel sprouts. That much, he thinks, belongs to him.)

Put together, the sum of his person doesn’t add up to, well, a _person_. He can converse and banter and mentor and build a passable rapport with his staff, but the substance required for emotional intimacy is either spread too thin over a vast timeframe or a stunted thing shunted off into a box in some forgotten corner—

Wait.

“We’re not starting a relationship,” Ozpin says in genuine confusion, dragging himself from his reverie with the realization that it has nothing to do with the conversation he thought they were having.

Glynda looks unimpressed. “Obviously.”

So he’s fallen that far, has he?

Ozpin pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, I—that’s not the crux of the problem, is what I’m trying to say,” he says.

Although it might become the crux of future problems the way things are going.

He sighs, figuring the situation has deteriorated far enough that there’s no point in playing coy. “The gala went predictably,” he says with a thin smile. “And although I made sure not to sully Beacon’s good name while present, I’m afraid I made quite the fool of myself by over-imbibing when Qrow came to visit me at my apartment after.”

Thankfully Glynda does look a bit surprised at this, so whatever else she’s willing to believe him capable of, at least that particular set of events wasn’t on the list. “Okay,” she says. “That’s probably how I’d spend my night after too. But what did you do that was so terrible that you couldn’t talk to him about it afterwards?”

Ozpin clears his throat and focuses back on his paperwork. “Well,” he says, and there honestly isn’t anything more to the sentence.

He’s spared himself from seeing her exact reaction, but it manifests in the tap of her heels and weight of her gaze anyway. “You don’t remember,” she says flatly. She heaves a deep, world-weary sigh. “And he won’t tell you.” A heel clacks again. “Men.”

He does look back up at her then, irritated in spite of himself. “I do have more pressing concerns—”

“Not tonight,” Glynda says sweetly, swiping the paperwork off his desk and tucking it under her arm. “So maybe you can ask him at the meeting you’re set to have in, oh,” she checks her scroll, “the next couple minutes.”

He stares at her in stunned betrayal, then glances back at the whiskey bottle still sitting in incriminatingly blatant foreshadowing on his desk. Glynda somehow produces two tumblers out of thin air and sets them next to the bottle.

“I hope you’ll forgive the deception, but sometimes external influence is needed to help a relationship along,” she says, tone just shy of mocking as she begins to make her way out of the room. “I respect that you needed your space, but enough time has passed that that space is becoming detrimental to everyone involved. And, unfortunately, as we’re all part of the same small organization, we do need that schism in communication healed sooner rather than later. And you’ll both be better for confronting the problem, too.”

Well, then.

Glynda has an exemplary memory, truly becoming of his deputy headmistress.

He could swear she’s managed a verbatim replication of the speech he gave her two years earlier after manipulating her into taking a mission with General Ironwood following a particularly heated disagreement in their own burgeoning relationship.

“Glynda,” he asks carefully, “is this an intervention or revenge?”

She flashes him a bright yet humorless smile. “Yes,” she says. “Have a wonderful evening, Professor Ozpin.”

He has a brief window of escape between when she leaves and when Qrow arrives, but he’s not willing to descend from avoidance into outright cowardice.

And that would be incredibly unfair to Qrow.

And so Ozpin sits, like a man awaiting the gallows, unable to do anything but think about the conversation he’s about to have as Glynda appears to have been quite thorough and locked him out of his administrative accounts as well.

At the very least, Qrow doesn’t seem to be looking forward to it either when he walks through the door.

“Hey,” Qrow says, clipped and neutral, and with that one word the gap that’s been growing between them reasserts itself. His eyes dart to the whiskey bottle and he immediately crosses the room to pour himself a drink, shoulders hunched and frown in place.

This is going well.

“I thought a conversation was due,” Ozpin says, as though he had any semblance of control over this meeting, and pours his own drink for little reason other than to preoccupy his hands. The smell of hard liquor stirs up an echo of bitter sentiment from the night of the gala and the morning after, but doesn’t do him the courtesy of dredging up any more of his lost memories. “There’s a discussion I regret to say we’ve both been avoiding—”

Qrow huffs a humorless laugh, the whiskey in his glass already half gone as he prowls the length of Ozpin’s desk. Glynda might’ve been generous enough to provide the liquor and tumblers, but she hadn’t bothered bringing up an extra chair. Likely because it would’ve tipped Ozpin off much sooner. “Yeah, sure,” Qrow says, finishing off his first glass and pouring himself a second. “This the part where you tell me you’re firing me?”

What?

“What?” Ozpin says aloud, belatedly realizing he has his own glass in hand, hovering above the desk as his fingers tap absentmindedly on the rim.

He’s not fidgeting.

Why—had he acted so poorly that Qrow believes he might get rid of him to save his own reputation?

“Qrow, I’m only asking for an explanation,” he says, unable to smother his stunned confusion, and Qrow’s deep red eyes narrow at that, reassessing. “So that I might be able to give you one in turn.”

He means it as a reassurance. Qrow doesn’t quite seem to take it that way.

Qrow’s glass—again already half drained—pauses at his lips before he lowers it, mouth set in an even deeper frown. “So this isn’t because you remembered,” he says.

“Well, no—”

“Then what’s the problem?” Qrow asks with a cynical, overly-defensive smirk Ozpin is far more used to seeing directed at people other than himself. “I’m fine living with it, you’re probably better off not knowing, and I’m doing my job just fine.”

 _I miss you,_ Ozpin doesn’t say, raising his glass more as some superficial shield than out of any desire to drink. _And I’m terrified of losing you over whatever it is I might have done._

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be the judge of that myself,” he says instead, ignoring the dread ‘better off not knowing’ instills in him. “Your performance out in the field may not have suffered, but I can’t help but notice that your relationship with some of your coworkers has become...strained.”

Just the one relationship. And Ozpin is the unprofessional one for prioritizing it, really.

Qrow knocks back the rest of his drink and pours a third. Ozpin should probably put a stop to that. “You gettin’ lonely without me, Oz?” Qrow asks, seeing through the subterfuge effortlessly. Likely he intends the question as a joke, but his voice cracks towards the end of it.

_Yes._

_How do I undo this?_

_How do I get you back?_

“I’m just concerned,” Ozpin says, taking another delicate sip of whiskey to distract himself, “about what it might mean going forward.” He flashes Qrow a smile he hopes looks more substantial than it feels. “We’re too small an organization to dance around this indefinitely.”

Although there’s a chance he would have if not for Glynda’s interference.

He’s not yet sure whether he should thank her for that.

Qrow exhales sharply, leaning against Ozpin’s desk with his back to him. He stares into his tumbler. “It’s so fucking stupid, maybe you’ll think it’s funny enough to give me a pass,” he mutters into the glass, and drains it dry again before slamming down on the desk. “So, I stopped by after the party.”

Ozpin straightens up in his chair, setting his own glass aside. “Yes?” he prompts.

“You were hammered.”

The phrasing’s so unrelentingly blunt that Ozpin hides a wince Qrow isn’t even facing him to see. “Yes,” he admits, quieter.

“You kissed me.”

...Oh.

Oh, no.

That isn’t anywhere on the list of things he’d theorized could have gone wrong.

He always swore he’d never—not with what it’d jeopardize, not with what he could stand to lose. Not after falling so hard it had, in truth, felt like falling. He’s supposed to be better than that, he’d thought, ‘better than that’ is what had kept Qrow around to begin with, so Ozpin had treated it like a schoolyard crush; like some transient folly of his emotionally stunted present self he could bury with the rest of it, foolishly confident he could keep it under wraps.

Why would he ever, he’d thought.

But apparently he had. Easily. And with very little excuse.

That explains a lot.

(So hubris isn’t a flaw he’ll be ridding himself of any time soon.)

“I…” he forces through numb lips, clasping his trembling hands in his lap as he grasps for an explanation that isn’t there beyond the appallingly obvious.

“—Was hammered,” Qrow reiterates dismissively, and the knot in Ozpin’s chest loosens a little even as the rest of him remains numb with shocked dismay. “I’ve been there, Oz, you get stupid when you’re that far gone. And you explained the whole temporal dissociation thing on top of that.”

Well. That’s generous of Qrow.

And it is convenient that Ozpin provided himself an out as far as responsibility, although that hadn’t been his intention when he’d brought up his inebriated shaky grasp of his past lives.

(For all that Qrow seems to have accepted it as an explanation, Ozpin isn’t strictly certain that he wants the excuse anymore. It’s selfish, but if it’s happened then he would very much like to be personally responsible.)

And the question remains—

“If you’re willing to forgive me that, what’s been bothering you?” he asks with a calm he doesn’t feel.

One of Qrow’s rings taps a jittering staccato beat on Ozpin’s desk. “You got every excuse,” he says, and lapses into silence, the sharp tap-tap of the ring stretching on until even that peters out, and he takes another sharp breath peppered with bitter laughter. “I don’t have any for kissing you back.”

...Oh.

Well, that—

Oh.

There are emotions Ozpin should be feeling about that sentence. In humiliating excess, in fact. But he can’t quite settle on which yet.

“And why,” he hears himself ask distantly, “did you do that?”

What a terrible question.

A terrible question with so many obvious answers—reflex, equal (if more regularly handled) drunkenness, chemical in-the-moment lust, perceived duty to Qrow’s intoxicated boss’s whims—and none of the ones that come to mind are particularly appealing and yet Ozpin still wants to know.

Qrow turns to face him, furrowed brow and frowning mouth communicating that he, too, thinks it’s a terrible question. He opens his mouth to speak. Then shuts it. He reaches for the bottle again.

Ozpin reflexively grabs his wrist.

(Four times is probably too many.)

Qrow’s pulse is _racing_ beneath his fingertips.

Qrow’s eyes dart from him back to the bottle, and stay there. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says quietly.

_That it hasn’t ruined everything._

_(That you meant it?)_

“I just want an explanation—”

Qrow gives a harsh bark of laughter and yanks his wrist back. “What, like a ten page essay on why I came on to you? You gonna give it to Glynda to file with my resignation form or whatever the fuck you need to get rid of me? This isn’t one of your puzzles, Oz, there’s no mystery to solve. You were drunk and I was—me, and even though you’re the one that’s done so much for me you started rambling about how somehow you were grateful I was there and for a second there I thought maybe—”

He stops, raking a hand through his hair. “Anyway. You were drunk. I’d say I’ve been there, but you take it to the next level with the whole past lives thing. I could have been anyone. _You_ could have been anyone. I’d say forget about it but heh, you already have. Why not leave it there?”

This means—something.

(This means _everything_.)

And for the life of him Ozpin can’t pinpoint the exact nature of that meaning but nevertheless this is a moment he can’t let slip by. “Because you so obviously haven’t,” he replies, and it isn’t anywhere near as direct as he should be but it’s a start.

There’s something fragile behind Qrow’s eyes now, constantly flicking in any which direction but Ozpin’s, but somehow even with the excruciating degree to which Ozpin’s dragged this out to dissect each moment, he hasn’t fled yet. “You ever just know you’d get addicted to something if you ever tried it?” Qrow asks, which is a bit of a non sequitur at face value but Ozpin has nothing to lose by humoring him, and raises a politely inquisitive eyebrow in response.

A bitter smile flashes across Qrow’s face. “Summer used to put off entire book series if she thought she had a long-term mission coming up because of that. Tai refuses to get a pet while taking care of his girls is still a full-time job. My old man was an alcoholic so I didn’t touch a damn drop until—” That’s a dangerous line of thought to continue, and thankfully Qrow stops following it before Ozpin can voice his concern. “Anyway. If you’re dumb enough to try it and it turns out you’re right, your only options are to keep chasing it until it crowds out everything else or shut it down ‘cause you’ve got too much to lose. And uh, I already tried option one on the other thing and I have too much to lose here, so this time I’m going cold turkey.” His second smile is even more strained than its predecessor. “Our circle might be small, but you’ve got other options for small talk. So feel free to use ‘em. I can still do my job, you’re not missing much.”

Qrow wants him.

Qrow wants him and cares enough to let it go and cares about whether it was him specifically that was stupid enough to initiate that kiss—

Qrow’s hand starts creeping closer to the whiskey bottle again in the silence, possibly on reflex. Ozpin slides the bottle out of his reach. “I’m...not sure that’s the best analogy you could have used,” he says, and Qrow shrugs.

“Either one’s worth firing me over—”

And with all that’s been said, Ozpin now finds that assumption infuriating enough to blurt out:

“It was me.”

Qrow looks nonplussed at this response. “You’re firing me or you’re an alcoholic?”

It’s amazing how quickly Qrow can oscillate between disturbingly perceptive and snidely obtuse.

But then he usually does so to get his desired results, and with this question Ozpin has no choice but to elaborate.

“I kissed you,” he says, ignoring his own quickening heartbeat.

All for nought; from the flat expression on Qrow’s face it’s not the reassurance or confession he intends it to be.

“So suddenly you know that,” Qrow says in a dull tone Ozpin hasn’t heard from him since his senior year at Beacon, and Ozpin’s heart sinks.

Qrow thinks he’s humoring him.

(Why would he humor him about _this_?)

There are dozens of ways Ozpin could dissect what transpired to build his argument; questions he could ask to prove his point within the context given (given especially that he himself still lacks any), analogies he could use in turn, overly elaborate purple prose he could fashion into a convoluted confession on the off chance there’s still some way he could have misinterpreted this, but what he settles on is uncharacteristically blunt in its execution.

“I want it to have been me,” he admits. “Especially if it meant something to you.”

That garners a better reaction—or at least a less neutral one, Qrow finally meeting his gaze again with wide-eyed comprehension that gives way back to cautious analysis.

Still searching for the non-existent punchline.

Ozpin has to do more, he has to prove he means it—

“But then maybe it would help to have a point of comparison,” he stammers out, impulsive and relentlessly unrefined. “Without my memory I can’t definitively confirm or deny, so what if I—”

He leans across his desk and kisses Qrow before he can talk himself out of it.

As a rush-job it is, objectively, not very good—not with the desk between them and the awkward angle Ozpin’s dragged Qrow into just to catch his mouth, too precariously balanced to manage anything with more finesse than a graceless mash of lips against lips after a brief nose collision. And halfway through the already poorly executed venture Ozpin realizes with a thrill of dismay that he never actually gave Qrow the opportunity to consent; it’s very possible this disaster is entirely uncalled for.

But he has this now, for better or worse. This memory he can hold on to.

“Was it anything like that?” he asks breathlessly, still propped up halfway across his own desk by an increasingly sweaty palm.

The skittish cynicism behind Qrow’s eyes is gone, softened into something pensive and cautiously hopeful. He licks his lips, and Ozpin finds his gaze drawn helplessly towards the dart of his tongue.

The corner of Qrow’s mouth lifts, and Ozpin is too wound up with anticipation to note how the sharp slant is closer to a smirk than a smile until Qrow opens his mouth and answers, “Nope.”

Oh.

And apparently he says that aloud, because Qrow gives a laugh that’s an interesting mix of amused and anxious, squeezing his hand.

“There’s a whole fuckin’ desk in the way, why did you—actually hang on a sec—”

Qrow then _vaults over the desk_ in a haphazard flail of long limbs Ozpin should probably disapprove of, but before Ozpin can even fully process what’s happening Qrow’s arm hooks around his waist and spins him round to settle them both into a sit on the desk, side by side.

“Okay,” Qrow says, “now I’m willing to give you another shot.”

He flashes Ozpin a prompting, open smile that’s just nervous enough to resonate with Ozpin’s own contradictory cocktail of emotions in a way that’s strangely reassuring. Ozpin takes a bracing breath.

“How very generous of you,” he says, and tries again.

It’s an instant improvement—in angle, in contact, in balance—and with forewarning Qrow yields to it immediately, lips parting with a sigh as Ozpin curls a hand at the nape of his neck.

Qrow tastes like whiskey. And something about that taste—whiskey on his tongue instead of from the glass—does stir up a sense of deja vu.

It’s...nice. It’s warm, it’s intimate, and it lingers in a sweet, cloying way that leaves him comfortable enough to press up closer to Qrow, trailing his fingers from Qrow’s neck to thumb gently along stubble as he tilts his head into a deeper kiss.

And Ozpin gets to keep this memory, too. That really is something.

When he pulls away this time he can’t bring himself to go far, resting his forehead against Qrow’s with a soft exhale and unable to stop smiling.

“Hopefully that was better,” he says, “but if you’d like I could try again—”

Qrow kisses him.

And somehow Ozpin’s first thought is that Glynda was right—Qrow isn’t subtle.

It’s not a bad thing.

In fact it’s very—

It takes him a moment to remember to breathe, caught up in those hot, sucking kisses, and just as he gets a handle on it Qrow moves away from his lips to press kisses down his jawline to the thin strip of skin his turtleneck leaves exposed and that just isn’t _fair_ , so he tangles his hands in Qrow’s hair with a soft sound of discontent and positively attacks Qrow’s mouth in retaliation.

This turns out to be a good move.

One that brings them even closer as Qrow wraps an arm around his back, and Ozpin has to slide one hand out of Qrow’s hair to clutch at his shoulders as Qrow lifts him briefly to shift their positions. He distantly registers the clatter of disturbed glass as he slams back onto the desk, Qrow pressing down on him in what is honestly the perfect angle to introduce friction, well done Qrow, and he kisses Qrow harder for having the idea.

And that proves a wonderful way to spend the next minute or two or three, and then one or both of them gets the idea that maybe some variation or escalation should be introduced and Qrow runs his hands down Ozpin’s body while Ozpin tears his mouth away to make a game effort at seeing how thoroughly he can mark the skin exposed by Qrow’s criminally dipping neckline, propping himself back up on an elbow and ignoring the second rattle of glassware—

The cacophonic shatter of glass to the floor is more difficult to ignore.

“Shit,” Qrow mutters, backing away with a grimace as he stares at the splintered whiskey bottle shards.

Ozpin drops his head on to his desk in an effort to collect himself and ends up in a puddle. One that he quickly realizes has already spread across the back of his jacket and over his left sleeve. And most of his desk.

The puddle smells like whiskey.

It is at least a great catalyst for his return to reality.

He lurches up with a bereft sigh and stands to alleviate the damage, but it’s clearly too late. The excess soaked up by his clothing begins dripping on the floor.

“I’ll pay for that,” Qrow says, gesturing at the mess.

Given Qrow’s default mindset, Ozpin assumes he means the bottle specifically and says, “It was Glynda’s, I owe her anyway.”

His glasses are askew. He adjusts them, which barely helps as they’re also quite smudged. Through the blur he sees Qrow glance at him, red eyes wide with some sort of epiphany Ozpin is certain he won't enjoy when it's inevitably shared with him.

“You son of a bitch,” Qrow says, which is undermined by his widening grin.

Ozpin, the middle of removing his—to his mild surprise—already unbuttoned jacket, frowns at him in askance.

“This wasn’t your idea, was it?” Qrow asks.

Ah.

“I may not have been responsible for the preliminary arrangement,” Ozpin says evasively. “But the execution thereof—”

“Riiiight,” Qrow drawls with an undercurrent of laughter. “So is this Glyn’s payback for that Kuchinashi undercover couple bullshit? She always said she’d get you for that.”

“That may have factored into it,” he admits.

Qrow laughs harder, shaking his head. “Damn, wish I knew that going in, would’ve saved me a meltdown,” he says, smearing away mirthful tears. “You owe her a raise.”

Ozpin stops wringing liquor from his jacket long enough to shoot Qrow a dubious look. “I sincerely doubt you know her current salary,” he says, giving up and folding the jacket.

Qrow shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, it’s not enough to put up with this,” he says, still bright-eyed and grinning. “What, were you gonna let this drag out until sweeps week? We’re not a sitcom.”

“I was waiting for context,” Ozpin protests. “Something you seemed equally reluctant to provide, so I think it’s safe to say we were both at fault—”

Qrow kisses him again.

That isn’t getting old any time soon.

And for all that he melts into it he’s no longer able to ignore how utterly drenched he is, even in the heat of the moment, so while he allows it to continue he refuses to let it escalate.

Qrow seems content with whatever he’s willing to give him.

“I warned you,” Qrow murmurs against his lips. “Addict.”

“I don’t think I mind this vice,” Ozpin says as Qrow trails kisses down what he can reach of his bare neck, and another laugh vibrates against his skin.

“Great, ‘cause you’re about to get _very_ laid.”

Ozpin shakily inhales, suddenly very aware of his elevated heart rate and hot blush. “I look forward to it,” he says faintly, and the back of his legs hit his desk again as Qrow leans in.

The desk still covered in whiskey. Hopefully the interface is fine, but if not, then that’s really on the designer for being too short-sighted to protect a _desk_ against liquid spills. Everything’s been backed up, it’s fine.

“But we’re going to have to either clean up or take this elsewhere,” he adds, and Qrow pauses. “My desk has been defiled with enough fluids for one day. And the floor is covered in broken glass.”

He sees Qrow’s eyes dart to his chair and says very firmly, “No.”

“It’s literally shaped like—”

“It might be an unintentionally provocative design, but it doesn’t make for an exceptionally well balanced one, and should things end the way I suspect they would that brings us back to the broken glass.” He offers Qrow a soft smile. “I believe you’re familiar with my apartment?”

“Yeah, okay.” Qrow nods, straightening out his clothing with practiced ease. “Looking forward to seeing you there,” he says, lifting a hand in a wave as he turns to leave.

Ozpin clears his throat self-consciously. “Ah, you might want to consider transforming. Or at least using your Aura on—” He gestures to the bruises blooming along Qrow’s neck, and Qrow raises a surprised eyebrow as he turns back, hand clasping his neck for inspection.

“I’ll shift, I’m kinda curious to see the damage in a mirror,” Qrow says, and Ozpin has no idea how to feel about that sentence. “Plus it won’t turn as many heads if you leave with a bird.” Qrow smirks. “Although speaking of presentation, you might wanna check yourself.”

Hard to imagine what would be more conspicuous than the overwhelming stench of whiskey. He can’t possibly have enough exposed skin for noticeable marks—

But the mystery of his open jacket has been solved with the discovery of his equally open waistcoat.

And belt.

And fly.

That is...some impressively efficient dexterity. That’s going to be fun to explore in the future.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, fumbling to refasten everything, and as he does it suddenly hits him—where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s doing it _with_ —and as he turns to face an expectant Qrow all he can think to ask is:

“Why?”

Qrow looks understandably confused. “Why what?”

_Why do I get to have this?_

“Why…” Ozpin tries to think of a question that isn’t either even more confusing or profoundly self-deprecating. “Did…” he trails off again.

He’s managed two words. Splendid. Eloquent. Decidedly not nonsensical.

He’s still very wet.

Somehow Qrow cobbles together a full question from it anyway. “What, last time? You were drunk and I was me still covers it, Oz.” He picks at the leather band around his wrist. “Sure, now I know you’re actually interested, but there wasn’t much of a trigger other than drunk. You said you’d rather let my Semblance wreck your room than think about how you’re a screw-up, I said you weren’t a screw-up, and then you decided you were— _really glad_ to have me around. And just when I thought it might be going somewhere, you passed out and I realized how bad off you were.”

Ah. That definitely sounds like it was Ozpin, then. That’s a relief, somehow.

One detail still nags at him.

“I think the incident does definitively prove that I have my fair share of failings as a leader,” he points out, and Qrow rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, and? That just means beneath all the mystery and the hype, you’re still human.” Qrow flashes him a wry smile. “Join the club. Infallible might make for good leader material so I can get why you put on the act, but I didn’t go falling for a figurehead.”

Ozpin’s heart skips a beat.

Qrow looks as though the full extent of what he’s said is only just dawning on him, but Ozpin is already kissing him before he can take it back.

It seems lack of subtlety really is contagious.

“Keep this up and we’re gonna have to settle for the booze desk and broken glass,” Qrow murmurs breathlessly between kisses.

In a pinch they could always—

It wouldn’t necessarily be convenient but—

They really shouldn’t.

Ozpin takes a few steps back, straightening his clothes again with another self-conscious clear of his throat. “I think you had the right idea about shifting until we reach the apartment,” he says.

Qrow smirks. “I dunno, now I’m almost tempted to see if I could get you to—”

“Yes,” Ozpin answers bluntly, and Qrow’s eyebrows shoot up. “You could. But that runs a number of risks I would rather not have to detail to an EMT, so please,” he nods towards the door.

Qrow tilts his head and gives Ozpin the softest, warmest smile he’s ever seen as his form dwindles into a flurry of feathers that flutters up to perch on Ozpin’s shoulder.

Ozpin takes a bracing breath and gathers up his things as he heads out of the room.

His cane managed to avoid the worst of the damage, save for a sticky handle, but his jacket might be beyond saving. The rest of his clothing is beginning to stick to him now, his glasses are still smudged, his hair is in much worse shape than usual, and he reeks like an upended liquor cabinet and will continue to do so for the entire walk across his potentially not empty campus.

And the cleanup is going to be a nightmare. Instigator or not, Glynda’s sure to have a fit when she sees the mess.

Ozpin clicks the lights off when he leaves, and as Qrow’s beak nuzzles at his ear he can’t help but smile.

He’s never been happier.

(And Glynda is absolutely getting that raise.)


End file.
